


Constantly

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Drugs, Honestly what am I supposed to do with that thing?, Mycroft & Sherlock through the years, Starts as kidfic through TAB, Suicidal Ideation, no s4, redbeard is a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: Mycroft was seven when Mummy brought home his new baby brother. Big Brother was a new role for him, and he was determined to be perfect at it. Mummy arranged the baby on his lap. Mycroft had read that babies so young couldn't really see, but this baby's gaze seemed sharp. Something about it seemed to demand an introduction, so Mycroft decided to comply."Hi, Will," he crooned. "My name is Mycroft. I'm your big brother."This news seemed less than welcome. The crystal blue eyes squinched up, and the baby cried, rapidly turning an alarming shade of red. "What's wrong?" Mycroft gasped."Just hungry." Mummy scooped up the infant. Mycroft gasped in horror."You've got to support his head, Mummy!" He knew that for a fact, babies' heads were so big that delicate neck could snap like a twig. Mummy nodded and smiled but she didn't seem anywhere near careful enough. Until baby William held up his own head at three months, Mycroft worried about a broken neck.Constantly.
Comments: 40
Kudos: 120





	1. Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Said it before: I adore the brothers Holmes. Here for your approbation, a series of vignettes of their lives together as brothers, from Sherlock's birth to the end of TAB. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Mycroft was seven when Mummy brought home his new baby brother. This was nothing Mycroft had ever wanted, but once it became clear it was inevitable, he threw himself into the project whole-heartedly. It was a new role for him -- Big Brother -- and he had no intention of being anything less than brilliant at it. 

Accordingly, he pondered over books that showed the baby's growth at each stage of Mummy's gestation. He pored over baby care manuals and even puzzled his way through a basic child psychology text, which made him wonder why doctors use such long words to say such elementary things. 

So now, looking at the incredibly tiny creature, Mycroft felt well prepared. Mummy sat him down and arranged the baby properly on his lap. Mycroft had read that brand-new babies couldn't see well, but to his surprise, this baby's focus seemed sharp. 

"He's looking at me," he marveled, and indeed he was. It would be very fanciful to ascribe thought to a child so young, but something in that gaze seemed to demand an introduction. Mycroft decided to oblige. 

"Hi, Will," he crooned. "I'm Mycroft. I'm your big brother." 

This news seemed less than welcome. The crystal-blue eyes squinched up and the baby cried, rapidly turning an alarming shade of red. 

"What's wrong?" Mycroft gasped. 

"Just hungry," Mummy soothed, and scooped up the infant. 

The older boy gaped at the casual way she handled the baby. "You've got to support his head, Mummy!" he squeaked. He knew that for sure; babies' heads were so big, if you weren't super careful, that delicate neck could snap like a dry twig. Mummy nodded and smiled at him, but she sure didn't seem to be anywhere near careful enough. Until Baby William held up his own head at three months old, Mycroft worried about a broken neck. 

Constantly.


	2. Eleven

Mycroft was eleven, and he was worried sick. 

The baby wasn't right. At age four, he had yet to speak. He screamed, rocked, flapped his hands, and pushed away people who got too close. Mummy had circles under her eyes, and the worry lines on Daddy's forehead had set into something permanent. There were endless rounds of doctors and testing, and words whispered when they thought Mycroft couldn't hear. Words like "autistic," "retarded," "delayed," and most chilling of all, "facility." 

Mycroft wasn't having it. No one was going to take his baby brother away! They didn't know what they were talking about! He knew for a fact Will was smart. He was a Holmes, he had to be! He knew the younger boy followed along as he read to him. And he could put together jigsaw puzzles quick as a whip. He was really good at the counting games on the computer, too. 

Mycroft thought and thought. He thought maybe Will was thinking _too_ fast, so fast he couldn't catch the thoughts and everything got too jumbled up in his head for him to talk. Maybe there was something that could help with that. He pulled out all the stops researching the question, putting his regular school work on hold. (He was so far ahead at that point, it hardly mattered.) Finally, in an obscure article about memory techniques, of all things, he found something he thought might work. 

He found Will in the solarium. He'd learned long ago that talking face to face made the boy turn away and get agitated, so he sat beside him, and spoke casually into the air. "Think of a house. It's your house that you build inside your mind. It's got lots of shelves and drawers and closets and all kinds of spaces where you can put your thoughts and ideas, and when you want to remember something, you just go to that same place and there they are." He outlined a few examples, then with the same casual air, got up and left. 

That night, he helped Mummy with Will's bedtime routine, as he often did. Sometimes, Will was difficult: he loved his bath, and would sometimes refuse to get out. On this night, though, he was calm. "You've been quiet today," Mummy remarked as she helped the little boy into his pyjamas. "Thinking deep thoughts in there?" 

"I builded a houthe," Will lisped. "Mycoff showed me." 

Mummy gasped and stared, almost fainting. Mycroft wanted to grab his little brother, spin him around and whoop, but he knew better. He settled for hugging his own knees to his chest and grinning widely. 

He was the best big brother ever!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft teaching Sherlock the mind palace as a way for him to impose order on chaos is a head canon of mine that appears in several of my stories, e.g., Cake and Cognac, and my long fic A Conditional Pardon. It just makes sense to me that if the problem is sensory overload, having a way to sort and retrieve data efficiently would be a game changer.
> 
> Leave kudos and comments and your next fortune cookie will be awesome!


	3. Fourteen

Mycroft was fourteen, and he was furious. 

Those little -- _hooligans_ \-- had dared to lay hands on his baby brother! Well, he'd set them scuttling, right enough, and now he trudged home with his arms full of a much-bruised, sniveling boy. 

"Someday," he promised, "I'm going to be the most powerful person in England, and no one will ever dare hurt you again. Just you wait, Will." 

"Sherlock," his brother mumbled against his shoulder. "I can walk, My." 

"No, you can't; you ankle's swelling up. What do you mean, Sherlock? What's wrong with Will?" 

"The kids make fun of me. They call me Willy-Nilly. Some of them call me Billy Goat." 

"You think they won't make fun of Sherlock?" 

The younger boy shrugged. "They're going to make fun of me no matter what I'm called, so why shouldn't it be a name I choose?" 

Well, that logic was unassailable. As was his own. How did one gain that kind of power? He'd have to research the question. Until then, he'd have to be vigilant and watch over his vulnerable sibling. 

Constantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The child is the father of the man. Both these boys made decisions very young that would redirect their whole lives; one to accept the world only on his own terms, the other to seek power. Discuss among yourselves.
> 
> Kudos and comments for the smol, cute little chapter????


	4. Seventeen

Mycroft was seventeen, and his gut was twisting with anguish. 

Redbeard was dead. His brother's beloved pet had succumbed to liver cancer. Their parents had spent money freely, trying to save the animal, but although he fought a good fight, the inevitable finally loomed. It was simply cruel to prolong it; the dog had to be put down. 

To say Sherlock did not take it well was an understatement. He had had a howling, flailing meltdown, of the kind he had not had since he was very small. This was followed by a depression so severe there was talk of hospitalising him, but then the boy rebounded. He was slowly improving but he was still very subdued, picking at his food and prone to bursting into tears at odd moments. 

Which made the timing of what Mycroft had to tell him less than optimal, to say the least. 

He found Sherlock in the sitting room, knees drawn up to his chin, staring glumly into the fire. As it turned out, he didn't have to say a word: Sherlock had him deduced in less than five seconds. 

"You're _LEAVING?_ " To both brothers' surprise, tears sprang to the younger boy's eyes. "You said you wouldn't go early. You _promised."_

He had, hadn't he? Mycroft was so far ahead of his school-age friends, he could have started university four years ago. But he had excellent reasons for not doing so. Not only did he wish to stay close to his baby brother, but his research had indicated that true power was not wielded by the politicians but by the men (and rarely, women) behind the scenes -- men and women who seemed, at first glance, completely ordinary. So, rather than leap over his classmates, he quietly took on university level courses in addition to his regular schoolwork, and used the school as his personal laboratory. He learned to swim invisibly among the goldfish; to smile, entice, network, pull strings and manipulate. 

But now...

"I'm sorry," he answered. "An internship opened up at Cambridge. It's a rare opportunity." 

"You promised," Sherlock insisted. "You _lied."_

"Not on purpose, little brother," he appeased. "I didn't know this was going to arise, now did I?"

"So promises are good only as long as something doesn't 'arise?' " the younger sibling sneered. 

"I'd rather not leave you behind," Mycroft said sincerely, "but needs must. I cannot pass this up." 

"Fine, _LEAVE_ then!" Sherlock's face crumpled momentarily, but then he smoothed it out, snapping into place a mask of indifference. "Everyone leaves, don't they?" 

"They do." He blinked, his mind racing. He couldn't stay with his little brother, but he could give him some armour. "Everyone leaves, Sherlock. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. If anything, it's a paralytic, and one you cannot afford." 

"Fine. Then I don't care about you." 

It was a lie, but it still stung. He forced a cold smile onto his face, mask facing mask. _Cruel to be kind._ "That's a good start, then," he said crisply, and walked out without looking back. 

Surely it was only imagination that he could feel his heart crack. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Oh, Mycroft, what have you done?
> 
> Kudos and comments make it a two way conversation. So much more satisfying than me just mumbling in my coffee...


	5. Twenty-four

Mycroft was twenty-four and he was dismayed. 

Mummy and Dad had gone abroad and left Sherlock on his own for a few days. Mycroft had swung by and found the boy... 

Well. How many synonyms were there for this? High, stoned, wasted, baked. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, while his demeanour was something Mycroft had never seen before. He was almost willing to entertain possession as an explanation for the stranger in Sherlock's body. 

"You've got to try this, My," the younger sibling insisted, his words coming out in a rapid ratatat. "My mind is _crystal._ Remember I used to say my thoughts flickered by like images on a movie screen? Well, now they're _holograms._ I can walk around them; I can see the angles and connexions; I understand _everything!"_

"Sherlock, it's an illusion," Mycroft argued. 

"All perception is an illusion," Sherlock replied with the self-important wisdom of the intoxicated. "Everything is processed through the brain. This is just...switching on a different server. C'mon, try just one line." 

"It's a trap," the older brother insisted, "and it will kill you." 

"You're gonna narc on me." 

"Oh, yes." 

After that, Mummy and Dad kept Sherlock on a much tighter leash. Mycroft kept in frequent contact, and no further incidents arose. Still, he worried. 

Constantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear.
> 
> Kudos and comments are salt and pepper in the recipe of life. Or something like that.


	6. Thirty

Mycroft was thirty, and he was fed up. 

Sherlock had finally earned his degree in Chemistry. His grades were excellent, but that was a testament to raw genius, not any sort of effort the boy had put in. With a brain as incandescent as his, he should have been finishing early, not limping across the finish line a year late. 

But then, multiple rehabs did consume a lot of time. 

The problem now was that the degree was pretty much useless on its own. When you combined Sherlock's patchy record with a reputation as a druggie, no graduate programme would accept him. In the face of unrelenting rejection, his little brother had spiraled further down the sinkhole of addiction than ever. 

Mycroft sighed as he swirled cognac in his snifter. He'd thought he was helping Sherlock by protecting him, packing him off to rehab, bailing him out, mopping up his messes, supporting him ... but then, in an article on addiction, the word _enabler_ had popped off the page at him. 

And now, this latest stunt. 

The front door snicked open. Mycroft downed the last of his brandy in one long swallow, savouring the warmth spreading in his chest, before marching out of the den to face his errant sibling. 

"Sherlock," he greeted coolly. 

"Uh-oh, I'm in trouble!" his little brother sing-songed. Mycroft didn't even have to see him to know he was very high indeed. "Whattid I do?" 

"Pawning the silver, brother mine?" 

"So what?" Sherlock scoffed. "It gets used twice a year, at Christmas and Mummy's birthday. It's just taking up space." 

"No, that's you," Mycroft bit back. "Taking up space, wasting your life..." 

"Mine to waste, innit?" 

"Exactly so," the elder brother said agreeably. "And you may waste it on your own time, at your own expense. I'm done enabling your behaviour. You have ten minutes to pack a bag and be off. If you do not leave voluntarily, I shall have you forcibly removed. And I don't think you want to talk to a constable in your current condition." 

Sherlock gaped at him, nonplussed. "Overreacting, brother mine. It's just silverware." 

"The silver's not the issue and you know it. Nine minutes, forty seconds." 

The glassy blue eyes blinked twice, hard, then Sherlock stomped up the stairs. He was back down eight minutes, fifty-three seconds later, sparing Mycroft not so much as a glance as he shouldered his duffle bag and stalked out the door. 

Mycroft stared after him as he swallowed past the tightness in his throat. Odd, that. Perhaps he was allergic to the brandy. He puttered about the house, tidying up, and decided to make an early night of it. His last waking thought was sent out as a prayer on the wings of the night: 

"Be safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes brothers share an all-or-nothing mindset. One wonders if there isn't something in between "I'm not enabling you" and "You have ten minutes; get out."
> 
> Kudos and comments push all the right buttons!


	7. Thirty-six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A six-year hiatus this time! Was Sherlock on the street all that time? As the Magic Eight Ball says, Answer Unclear. My sense of it is that as long as he had a violin (not the beautiful instrument he has at Baker Street, but some serviceable instrument), in between busking, pickpocketing, and whatever odd opportunities someone clever like him could take advantage of, he probably was able to afford a room about half the time. We know his life would have been hard, but we also know that even though Big Brother had stepped back, he was still keeping a weather eye on him.
> 
> And then what happened? Read on!

Mycroft was 36, and feeling cautiously optimistic. 

He was sitting in the Stranger's Room in the Diogenes Club, while across from him sat Sherlock and a guest. Sherlock looked well -- too thin, as was his wont, but clean in every sense of the word. His eyes were clear and his clothes, while well worn, were also well cared for: clean and pressed, and the two tiny mends were so carefully done only Mycroft would have seen them. 

It was his companion that arrested Mycroft's attention, however. This was a sturdy, well built man a bit older than Mycroft himself, with hair gone salt and pepper, heavy on the salt. He had warm brown eyes and a forthright manner the politician found refreshing. 

"So. My baby brother in the company of one of constabulary, and no handcuffs in sight. How unusual." 

The man -- Greg Lestrade was the name given -- blinked in surprise. "How'd you know -- oh, no! You do it, too -- the deduction thing." He glared at the junior Holmes. "You didn't tell me that." 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "He's actually better at it than I am." 

Greg's eyebrows raised. "So, no keeping secrets from you, then. Which is a good thing; I'm a big fan of honesty myself." 

"One might assume as much, given your profession." There was the clatter of a tray being wheeled in. "Ah, Wilder with the tea." 

In short order, cuppas were poured and a plate of tiny fruit tarts passed. Mycroft ruefully abstained from the sugary treats and noted that Sherlock did not tease him about it. _Of course, it wouldn't do to antagonise the person you're about to ask for a favour._ "So. To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"Right. Mr. Holmes, when I met your brother, he was in the holding cell. I don't think I need to tell you why. Also in the cell was a suspect in a possible homicide. Smug bastard; we knew he'd done it, but we didn't have a shred of evidence that would hold up in court, and he knew it. Sherlock looks him up and down and starts reeling off observations and deductions like he'd been at the crime scene. The guy was _flying,_ and he's still picking up on clues a whole team of seasoned detectives had missed. Told us the most likely place to look for the body. Thanks to Sherlock, we got our evidence and a confession. 

"So afterwards, I had a heart-to-heart with him. I told him he has an amazing gift, and he can use that gift to make a real contribution to the world we live in. Told him I'd be glad to work with him, but I couldn't have a junkie at my crime scenes. So the deal was, as long as he tested clean, he could have at our cold case files. Once he tested clean for three months, I'd let him look at the evidence from active cases, and at six months, I'd take him to a crime scene." 

"I went to my first crime scene yesterday, Mycroft. It was fantastic! The killer had..." 

Greg laid a hand over Sherlock's wrist. "Let's not use up too much of your brother's time." Sherlock subsided immediately. 

It didn't show on his face, but Mycroft was flabbergasted by the way his little brother responded to the policeman. _A Sherlock whisperer. Who knew?_ However, he'd learned long ago not to take things at face value. "So you're clean six months?" he challenged. He turned his laser-like focus to Lestrade. "Are you so sure?" 

"I'm sure. I've been subjecting him to random drug tests, and I do mean random, sometimes twice in one day." 

"Commendable, but insufficient. My brother is an expert at gaming tests." 

Lestrade shook his head firmly. "No, sir. I'm aware of the deceptions addicts use, and I've made sure. He walks into the loo in only his pants, and I go in with him. He hands the sample right to me. There's no chance of a switch. I'm positive. He's clean." 

Well, he would reserve judgment on that, pending further evidence. It looked promising, though. "So what do you need from me?" 

"Well, my first thought was to sponsor Sherlock at the Police Academy..." 

"Oh, no. No, no." All three men shared a wry chuckle at the thought. 

"It would take _years_ before I made detective," Sherlock moaned. "So I thought, why not jump right in as a Consulting Detective?" 

Mycroft frowned. "I don't believe there is such a thing." 

"No, I'd be the only one in the world." 

"The problem is," Greg added, "That's not a paying gig. Even if I set him up as an official Paid Consultant, that's on a per diem, as-needed basis. He could never make enough to live on. But Sherlock tells me you control his funds?" 

"Indeed. He was supposed to come into his trust fund at age 21, but given his -- proclivities -- the family made me the executor of the trust." He studied his sibling. "You're living in a shelter, I see, but not exclusively." He nodded toward Lestrade. "With you?" 

"He camps out in my den two or three nights a week." 

"Hmm. That can't be easy on an already strained marriage." 

Lestrade, to his credit, barely blinked. _Not an easy man to rattle, then. Better and better._

"The point is," Lestrade forged on, "Sherlock could make a living as a private detective. But he needs a few things to get started, most notably a permanent address." 

"There's a flat available on Montague Street," Sherlock chimed in, "but the landlord needs an answer today." 

"Hmm." Mycroft mulled it over. "I'm not about to sign over your trust, Sherlock; six months is not a very long time. Nevertheless, tell the landlord yes. I will arrange for your rent and utilities to be paid and set up accounts at the local grocers and clothiers. What else do you need?" 

"A cell phone and laptop. Wi-Fi. And could I have a subscription to a couple of newspapers as well? One of the better ones and one of the tabloids; that ought to give me a fair feel for what's going on in town. And -- well, I do need a certain amount of petty cash; it's impossible to live without." 

"I will supply you with a small stipend for the next six months. I will also pay for an advert in the papers and online: Sherlock Holmes, private detective. If you can't get your little business on a paying basis in that amount of time, you will have to think of something else. It goes without saying, I expect the drug testing to continue and a positive result cancels all these arrangements." They spent some time hammering out the details, then Lestrade and Sherlock took their leave. Mycroft watched his brother's retreating back. There was a bounce in his step he hadn't seen in years. 

_Police work. Rather beneath our station, but still respectable. And if it keeps him off drugs..._ The rest of that thought trailed off into a wordless prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade, fox in silver armour! I do love Gavin; how special it is that Graham can see past the desperate brashness and understand that Sherlock needs a firm hand and understanding friend. George is the best, isn't he?
> 
> Kudos and comments make your flowers bloom!


	8. Forty-one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter: children die. No one we know.

Mycroft was 41, and he was intrigued. 

Of all the things his little brother could have done, this had totally blindsided him. New digs and a flatmate -- especially this flatmate. What could he say except, _Bravo, brother mine. Well played._

Mycroft sighed, pacing a little while he waited for the car. Sherlock's recovery had not been spotless. His passion for the Work kept him on the straight and narrow for long stretches, but there were frequent danger nights and a few slips. 

This last one, though... he shook his head as the memory washed over him. It was a case that ended badly, and Sherlock blamed himself for putting together the clues too slowly. The perpetrators were not just human traffickers, but _child_ traffickers. Feeling the noose tightening, they decided to destroy the evidence by blowing up their hideout while they made their escape. Unfortunately, the "evidence" consisted of 14 children, ranging in age from three to nine. 

(The perpetrators made their escape on a boat, which somehow sank. Mycroft, of course, knew nothing about this.) 

The carnage had been horrible; he'd seen the CCTV footage. Even seasoned first responders had wept as they worked. He could just make out Sherlock in the corner of the screen, wide-eyed and pale, visibly trembling as one tiny, broken body after another was retrieved from the rubble. Finally, he broke and fled the scene. Even as overwrought as he was, he had avoiding the CCTV cameras down to a science. It took the better part of two days for Mycroft and Gregory to find him, in what was possibly the filthiest alley in London. Sherlock vehemently denied the overdose had been deliberate, and Mycroft had foregone bundling him off to rehab on two conditions: 1) Gregory would reinstate the random drug testing, and 2) Sherlock would live with Mycroft while searching for digs more conducive to recovery. His current flat was in a deceptively bad neighbourhood -- it looked tidy enough, but a cursory investigation proved drugs were all too easily available. 

That had been six months ago, and while Sherlock had maintained a white-knuckled sobriety, his emotional state had been anything but stable. A crushing depression had segued into a seesaw of lethargic moods punctuated by bursts of frenzied activity that had Mycroft wondering about bipolar disorder. Thank goodness the six month mark had passed and Sherlock was able to participate fully in the Work again. Nothing served better to focus his brother's considerable energy. 

A crunch of tyres on gravel, and Mycroft hastened to prepare himself for this meeting. He assumed his most imperious attitude, leaning on his umbrella and casually crossing one leg over the other. If the impression of John Steed was a bit on the nose, well, that was all to the good. 

Cautious footsteps approached, then John Watson and Mycroft Holmes took stock of each other. Mycroft noted how Watson's gaze systematically swept the room, noting doors, windows, possible hiding places, then resting on Mycroft himself. His chin was up and out pugnaciously, and his eyes filled with a challenge which read, _Go on. PLEASE ... try something._ A less astute scholar of the human condition may have diagnosed Short Man Syndrome, but Mycroft knew better. 

John Watson did not have to compensate for a thing. 

Very well. Ambience first. He assumed an air of casual threat, making his voice a silky purr as he inquired about Watson's connexion with Sherlock. The doctor faced him down fearlessly. Mycroft said as much: 

"You don't seem very afraid." 

"You don't seem very frightening." 

Well. That was interesting. Faced with Mycroft Holmes in full Antarctica mode, trained assassins had been known to quail. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity," he sneered, but he was impressed nonetheless. 

First test: an appeal to greed. Watson never even blinked at the temptation. A man of integrity, then. Good news, in that he would make a trustworthy companion for his brother. Bad news, in that he would be that much harder to manipulate. 

Second test: a casual reference to his therapist's notes. Most men would sputter in outrage, horrified by the breach of privacy. Dr. Watson was indeed outraged, but he never lost his focus. _Cool under pressure. Excellent._

A quick probe: mention of the battlefield. He could see the fire ignite in the ex-Army captain's eyes. _Love light._ He'd diagnosed correctly, then: "You're not haunted by the war. You miss it." 

He wrapped things up then, sauntering off while twirling his umbrella cartoonishly. He rather enjoyed theatrics, especially when they provided him with so much food for thought. Who was this John Watson? A consummate soldier wrapped in a thin shell of Everyman; hands that could wield both a gun and a scalpel. _I begin to see Sherlock's fascination._

This could work, Mycroft decided. The man was upright, loyal, brave, and reasonably intelligent for a goldfish. Not to mention, given his brother's impetuous nature, it was marvelously convenient to have a doctor sharing his flat. 

Of course, the repercussions if it didn't work out... 

_Dr. Watson will either be the saving of my brother or make him worse than ever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lived for eleven years in one of those deceptively tidy neighbourhoods. It looked to the casual observer like a sweet, quiet suburb in Midwestern America, but scratch the surface, and there were drugs, paedophiles, and racist scum everywhere. Honestly couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting....well, people who would be OK with swinging a dead cat. I was so glad to finally get out of there!
> 
> Mycroft's not the only one to wonder about bipolar disorder. Canon shows Sherlock in what seem to be clearly manic moods (literally jittering in his chair, needing a case) and flat-out depression. In my personal head canon, the jury's still out, but one could certainly make a case for it.
> 
> Kudos and comments make fanfic writers sparkle!


	9. Forty-three

Mycroft was 43, and his gut was roiling with anxiety. 

He was seated at his desk in the Diogenes club. He'd made sure he would not be disturbed. He was Antarctica, after all, and if he were seen to break a sweat, it could have subtle but serious repercussions for his position. 

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Mycroft reminded himself staring at his mobile would not produce the expected text any faster. He resisted the urge to pace. It was a tricky business, this. James Moriarty was intelligent, charismatic, powerful, and like his own brother, a little more than half mad. He was a loose cannon, and he absolutely had to be contained. 

Mycroft just wished there were a way to accomplish that that didn't involve Sherlock. 

The mobile buzzed with a one-word text: _Lazarus_ , the least favourable of the thirteen contingencies he and Sherlock had worked out. He reached over to his laptop and sent the message he already had queued up, then replied to the text: 

_Lazarus is go._

Mycroft Holmes allowed himself two minutes, exactly one hundred twenty seconds, to indulge in an emotional reaction to this news. This was horribly dangerous territory his baby brother was entering. He was going to be up to his chin in the worst criminal elements the world had to offer, and any support Mycroft could lend would be minimal at best. At the one hundred twenty-first second, he packed those emotions away, smoothed a few tiny wrinkles out of his suit coat, and sauntered out of the office, swinging his umbrella. He had a great deal to accomplish quickly, and emotions could only get in the way. 

After all, the anxiety was just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a very short one this time. From an American perspective, Mycroft's attitude exemplifies what I consider one of the great qualities of the British people: the ability to look reality in the face, say, "It is what it is," and then get on with it. Not like here, where everyone always seems to be on the edge of hysteria all the time.
> 
> Please drop your kudos and comments through the slot in the door!


	10. Forty-five

Mycroft was forty-five, and he was teetering on the edge of despair. 

He sighed as he studied the fingers wrapped around his umbrella handle. He did not wish to look up, for to do so would mean meeting another pair of eyes which reflected his own devastation. John Watson, Sherlock's faithful friend, sat across from him in the surgical waiting room, a cup of dishwater masquerading as tea balanced precariously on his knee. The two men had not spoken for over an hour, and silence and expectation made the air almost too thick to breathe. 

What John couldn't see -- what surprised Mycroft himself -- was that under the anxiety and the devastation was a childish indignation that this wasn't _fair_. Sherlock had spent two years trotting around the globe, taking apart Moriarty's organisation. Those two years had been hell; he'd been in constant danger. He'd been injured multiple times, and finally had got himself in a spot of trouble that required big brother to come to his rescue. But the thing was: They had _done_ it. Sherlock had completed his mission; he was _done,_ he was _home,_ he was _safe--!_

And now this. 

Mycroft reflected on the phone call he'd got earlier this evening. The message was terse, John's voice tight with worry: "Sherlock's been shot. We're en route to St. Mary's." 

Mycroft had hurried over. After a few minutes of confusion, he learned Sherlock had been rushed right into surgery. So worried he utterly forgot to saunter, he barged into the surgical waiting room, to find Dr. Watson there already. Their eyes met, and for a moment, they were just two men clutching a thin thread of hope while bracing themselves for immeasurable loss. Then Mycroft remembered himself and straightened his posture, seating the ferrule of his umbrella firmly on the floor. Dr. Watson unconsciously assumed Parade Rest and made his report like a good soldier: single gunshot wound, mid-torso, close range, small calibre bullet, no exit wound. He started to present more technical details of the wound, but Mycroft forestalled him. Abhorrent as it was, he could do nothing about any of that. There was only one question he wanted answered: 

"Your professional opinion, Dr. Watson?" 

And John had slowly closed his eyes and shook his head "no." 

That had been hours ago, and at first the men had kept up a desultory conversation. John filled Mycroft in on the events of that evening: how Sherlock had used his connexion with Magnussen's PA to talk his way into the office; what they had found there; how Sherlock went haring off after a whiff of Claire de la Lune (now _that_ was interesting!) How he had found Sherlock shot and Magnussen pistol-whipped. Ordinarily, Mycroft would press for details, but with Sherlock's life hanging in the balance, he couldn't be bothered. Gradually then, their words died, and the two men were left in silence, in the thickening air. 

Finally: approaching footsteps. For a moment, illogically, Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut. _Don't look. As long as you don't observe, both possibilities are still in play._ But Schroedinger's Cat was merely a thought experiment; in the real world, reality was what it was. 

Not daring to hope, Mycroft opened his eyes and observed the approaching surgeon. Bad news. No, good news. Both? The man's expression was hard to interpret, it was almost ... reverent. 

What had happened? 

"He's pulled through," the surgeon announced, and suddenly, the air was breathable again. "I've never seen anything like it," he continued. "He'd coded. We'd stopped resuscitation efforts; we even called TOD. Then ... he came back. All by himself. Incredible." 

John laughed, a breathy, relieved sound. "Yeah, well, coming back from the dead is a specialty of his." 

The doctor clearly didn't understand this, but didn't pursue it. "He's heavily sedated right now, but I can let you in to see him for just a few minutes." 

Half an hour later, they were ushered to Sherlock's bedside. His baby brother looked frighteningly thin and pale, surrounded by a plethora of tubes and wires. Mycroft bent close and spoke softly in the French/English hash they had used as bilingual children. Then he straightened, snapping his armour back in place as his gaze met Dr. Watson's, who had been examining Sherlock's readouts with professional interest. 

"Stay with him, Dr. Watson. I have work to do." John's eyebrows flew up towards his fringe, but Mycroft could spare no thought for his sensibilities right now. He definitely had important work to do. 

And that work had the initials C.A.M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only experience in a surgical waiting room was when my teenage son mashed his ankle to pieces and required a plate, pins and screws (shudder). I don't care how sensible you think you are, in that situation the clock's second hand moves in slomo and you have every expectation the surgeon is going to come back and explain that there were complications and they had to amputate the leg. (They didn't, of course, he's fine.) If I went through that much anxiety for something relatively minor, I can only imagine how many thousands of deaths Mycroft and John were dying waiting for word.
> 
> Kudos and comments are the cream in my coffee!


	11. Forty-six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Drugs, suicidal ideation. Be careful, if applicable.

Mycroft was 46, and he was horrified. 

Picked out in a blaze of spotlights, his baby brother was sinking to his knees, hands upraised in surrender. A swarm of red dots converged on him, and Mycroft retained just enough wherewithal to snap out, "Stand your fire! Do not shoot Sherlock Holmes!" His voice did not wobble, but it was a near thing. Very softly, he whispered, "Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?" 

The answer to that was that Sherlock had got himself in trouble beyond even Mycroft's ability to handle. This had so obviously been nothing but outright murder. There was no question of self-defence: Magnussen had been unarmed and his stance had been anything but threatening; he seemed almost jocular. 

Perhaps a psychiatric defence could be launched. A case could certainly be made that Sherlock had been spiraling downwards since his return from Serbia. It would be surprising if Sherlock _didn't_ suffer from PTSD; surely torture was not something you shrugged off as easily as you shrugged on your favourite coat. In such cases, sudden violence could be triggered by almost anything; Mycroft knew an agent who had suffered a violent flashback triggered by a snatch of music on a passing car's radio. 

Mycroft spent some hours in careful research, then made his way to the MI6 security facility where Sherlock was being held. It was a punch to the gut to see how seriously his little brother greeted him. Generally, the more serious a situation, the more irreverent and flippant Sherlock became. 

Mycroft opened his mouth, but never got out the first word. Sherlock had apparently been doing some deep thinking of his own. 

"If I go to gaol," he said, "it would have to be protective custody. Solitary." He looked up and said with utter conviction, "I won't live like that. I don't care how many of your minions you surround me with on suicide watch. I will find a way to die." 

Mycroft nodded, unsurprised. "The alternative..." 

"The alternative is a psychiatric hospital," Sherlock finished for him. "confinement again, but they would drug me as well." 

The absurdity of that struck Mycroft as past the pale. In his frostiest tones, he asked, "I'm sorry; do you have some objection to mind-altering drugs?" 

It was the wrong tack. Rather than snark back, Sherlock bowed his head, drew a deep breath, audibly swallowed, drew another. It took Mycroft several seconds before he understood what was happening. 

His baby brother was trying very, very hard not to cry. 

Instantly, Mycroft was fourteen again, carrying home his sniffling, bruised little brother. Words of consolation would only make it worse, though, so he pretended not to notice and gave Sherlock the few minutes he needed to pull himself together. 

When Sherlock finally spoke, his voice was steady. "That offer of employment..." 

What? _No!_ But then, he considered: yes. Yes, that could work. They had faked Sherlock's death once before; they were getting to be pros at this. He could be extracted and sent to ... well, Australia seemed a good choice. Several large, modern cities; he could be quite comfortable there. 

They could not speak of it openly, but the brothers had perfected a private language of in-jokes, expressions, and code words. He knew Sherlock understood what he was proposing. 

He was completely unprepared for the answer. Sherlock said nothing; he simply dropped his defences and let Mycroft _see._

What he saw was devastating. Sherlock's expression said simply _I'm done._ The man had given, and given, and given, and there was nothing left. Horrified, Mycroft shook his head slightly in negation. In reply, Sherlock mouthed the word _Please._

It was shattering. The brash young genius he'd vowed to protect almost four decades ago reduced to not only begging, but begging for death. _Is this truly the only help I can offer you, brother mine? To assist in your suicide?_

Well. Regret was one of the more useless of emotions. But he did regret, oh so much! Of its own volition, his hand stretched towards his brother, and he was shocked when Sherlock took it. It was very brief, a mere squeeze of the fingers, but it said everything. 

Head spinning, Mycroft knocked on the door to be let out and took his leave. Halfway back to the car, he decided: it didn't matter. He would proceed with the extraction plan. The nature of the mission was such that it wouldn't get truly dangerous until the second month. Being engaged in complex, dangerous work had always been his brother's best cure for depression. In a month, Sherlock may welcome extraction. And if he didn't, Mycroft would extract him kicking and howling. 

After all, his loss would break Mycroft's heart. 

  


2015 dawned bright and cold. Mycroft watched from the tarmac as Sherlock and John Watson exchanged the last few words they would ever say to each other. _The soldier doctor who was going to either save my brother or make him worse. Who knew it would be both?_

Sherlock removed his glove and the friends shook hands, then he got on the plane. Mycroft watched as the little silver bird took off; kept watching as it diminished with distance. HIs pensive mood was shattered by the simultaneous ringing of multiple phones; then Anthea was tugging on his sleeve. "Oh, sir! Sir!" There, on the screen of the limo's TV (and every screen in the country, as it turned out) was a face he never expected to see again mocking him with the words, "Did you miss me?" 

The Iceman had never been one to believe in divine intervention, but he considered it momentarily. The timing was perfect. Sherlock could be brought back and set to work on the Moriarty problem; he might well be able to finesse this into a pardon. 

The bubble burst as soon as Mycroft boarded the recalled plane. Sherlock was high off his face, slipping in and out of consciousness and babbling about a Victorian cold case. Evidently, his brother had decided not to wait for death to come to him. Obviously, he hadn't been able to finish before the news about Moriarty's return broke. Equally obvious, the possibility of engaging in another round with the criminal mastermind had reignited Sherlock's spark. "No need for that now," he burbled as he plucked the list from his sibling's fingers and ripped it up. "Got the real thing." This pronouncement may have carried more weight had he not chosen just then to totter like a newborn foal. His head weaved and he carefully held it steady while attempting to lock eyes with his brother. "Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon like a proper big brother?" 

So. Clearly, suicide was off the table. A relief certainly, but Mycroft still felt conflicted as he bent to pick up the paper shreds. His whole life, he had tried to help his little brother. But perhaps _his_ help was not what Sherlock needed. 

"John," he called. 

"Yeah." 

Mycroft looked up, letting the other man see his concern. "Look after him. Please." 

John nodded once and was gone. Mycroft tucked the remnants of the list into his notebook and sat back meditatively. In a sense, he had just passed on the baton, but he felt no lighter. He may no longer actively meddle, but he would never lay down the mantle of brotherhood. He would always be Sherlock's big brother, willing and ready to advise, help, protect, and yes, to worry. 

Constantly. 

  


-Fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's where I get off this ride! If anyone else wants to write S4 from Mycroft's perspective, have at it, but my brain can't wrap itself around the Iceman retching at the sight of blood.
> 
> Hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it!
> 
> And c'mon...if you've read eleven chapters and haven't hit the kudos button yet, you're just playing hard to get! And scribble a comment while you're at it, 'kay?
> 
> Lotsa love,
> 
> LL

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are wunnerful things!! Makes a fanfic writer sings!


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